


Better Living

by GenericDemon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Hannibal thinks he's interesting, Implied Stalking, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Apocalypse, Will Graham is a feral mess, abuse to package drones, abuse to vending machines, implied surveillance state, obligatory cannibalism, probably will stay a oneshot, references to the True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys universe, references to totalitarian government, too many references to Amazon that will probably be a problem down the road but fuck it, two dudes chilling on the broken apocalypse road and at least one of them is a cannibal, we say fuck Amazon in this one lads, weird au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericDemon/pseuds/GenericDemon
Summary: In the year 2030, Will Graham lives day in and day out under the thumb of a dystopian world.Forced to shoot down delivery drones just to get by, he eats what he can from the packages and sells the rest, and always clings to his limited freedom with a white knuckled grip. Still, he finds that living each day like it's a long walk along the edge of a narrow roof makes it hard to find meaning in anything at all.But one night, he shoots down a drone and someone actually comes looking.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Better Living

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite literally written based off that old Tumblr post that mentioned a writing prompt where people shoot down Amazon delivery drones to sell the items for money. 
> 
> There's also a lot of references to the Killjoys Universe only Amazon takes the place of BL/ind and I fucked up all the lore.

It's always noisy. 

The never ending drone of production in Baltimore carries for miles around and every surface that can be grafted to a monetized machine is lit up with smiling logos, the brazen smirk of a false god. 

Hell, even the asphalt isn't safe, every few feet the smile stretches across the untouched tarmac. The friction of rubber tires across yellow paint is absent and traffic exists in a way that would make any commuter gleeful; it's never been less congested. 

You'd be lucky to spot a car roll down the road once a week, and if you're unlucky, it'll spot you too.

There are no such vehicles now, not in such a dead zone, the hours between the moon's zenith and the sun's rise are a liminal space that only the ghosts haunt and Will takes advantage of the absence. Haunting is his speciality, and the streets of the pretend neighborhood are his boulevard of fame.

He walks it as he's done a thousand times until he's entrenched himself as the local spirit, the twitchy, reckless apparition of a man who always turns right into the forest after passing the third vending machine; rinse and repeat. Not that there's anyone to spread the tale to, but it's a local one and he tells it to himself if only to pass the time.

Will hikes the strap of his rifle higher, boots slapping the pristine sidewalk with each stride. The cookie cutter houses of the benignly rich are quiet and dark, it's an empty neighborhood power run to it like two paddles pressed to the chest of a year old corpse and he was the quiet, tired shout of _clear_ from the mortician.

The thought of breaking in always crosses his mind but the cost would far outweigh the benefit. It wouldn't be worth the single night's sleep before he's thrown out to the desperate claws of the factory floor the next morning. He knows he wouldn't survive, he's not stupid enough to go looking for that kind of death wish.

Behind his dust goggles the world is softer and lacks reflection, washed in a blue grey steel it drowns out the harsh lights that threaten to scrape the back of his retinas. He thinks maybe ten years ago some idiot wearing shades in the dead of night would be laughed into an early grave. 

The camera tracking his movement begs to differ. From the corner of every structure it blinks a dangerous red and Will ducks his head, carrying on a bit faster.

The barrier of polaroid glass on his face doesn't let the light through with any sort of grace. It will now, and forever be his salvation.

He wouldn't be caught dead without it. 

A hand wrapped around the strap of his cargo, the other stuffed into the pocket of his coat, Will flexes his fingers against the clammy, stickiness and breathes hot air in an endless cycle against his own face. 

It's a warm, humid night and already his skin feels the oppressive prickle under all the layers, leather and cotton, nylon and polypropylene, sweat slick under the thickest junctions of his gloves and hot down the backs of his knees. Condensation beads moisture on the stubble of his cheeks and down the underside of his chin, only furthering that itch where fabric kisses the skin. 

In typical fashion, he reaches a hand up and pulls the bandana a bit higher, settling it up on the bridge of his nose where it had started to slip. Reminding himself that he's safe is a mantra equivalent to throwing holy water at the devil.

It'll sizzle, but it never sticks. 

Discomfort and mild heat exhaustion were simply the bargains made for the hope of a hot meal and a full belly. There were worse ways to get what he needed. 

He passes the last vending machine. The orange smile is distorted across the electronics and key pads, but there it smirks. Worn, dog eared posters of the weather eaten variety crowd the surface. 

A parade of faces with black bars through the eyes look back at Will. Red X's cut through their shoulders, like a particularly sharp halo foretelling an unpleasant death. 

He rips one of them down, the paper shredding like rotten skin. It sticks to his gloves with an awful persistence as he crumples it into a ball and lobs it towards the street. Littering never felt so vindictive.

Half considering the beckon of the number pad on the vending machine, Will raises his fingers and presses a few buttons, the screen lights up with a series of numbers, the flash of a smile, the broken chime of an automated voice then-- 

**Out of Order!**

"Piece of shit," Will kicks it, once and hard, steel toed boot colliding with the metal shell. 

The machine makes a whining drone, lights clicking from bright, toxic white to thunderous red. 

The static flicker of a frown pops up on the display, and a tin can voice filters from the speakers, " _Refrain from damaging property, Refrain from damaging property--_ " 

Drawing the painted pistol at his hip, he clicks off the safety and fires right into that glitchy frowning face.

The shot rings unforgiving in the concrete pavilion, but watching the machine sputter and die is worth the hearing damage. He hated these fucking things. 

Hot smoke curls up from the hole in the screen and Will stows his firearm before reaching forward and hooking his fingers in the shattered edges. He rips the whole damn thing out with a snarl curling his lips. 

The tempered glass hits the concrete and he ignores the warning cries from the other machines, red lights blinking in the corner of his goggles. 

"Come on, come on…" Will mutters, digging around among the processing unit of the dead thing. He presses himself almost flush against the cool metal casing, bending his elbow deep in its mechanical guts as he runs his fingers along the seam of the compartment inside. Tongue sticking out between his teeth, he squints his eyes in concentration until his index finger finds something vaguely latch shaped and he flips it forward. 

With bated breath he listens for the telltale hiss of decompression. It resounds with a long hiss, unfiltered music to his ears. 

Removing himself from the innards of the vending machine, he shakes his wrist out before wrenching open the heavy maintenance door. It grinds and crunches the whole way in a deafening squeal against the corroding hinges.

The other two machines only ever scream louder. 

_"Stop. You are in violation of article 337, the proper authorities have been contacted. Do not attempt running, you will be caught."_

Over and over and over. 

He doesn't listen, he never does and no one is coming for him. It's all he ever tells himself, a comfort in the notion that so far it's stood true. No one bothered with the rats who prowled the empty streets, so long as they didn't start to spread any ideas; and he was always a good little rat in the eyes of the smiling god. 

Will fills his pack as much as he can, the unmarked pistols and ammo are the biggest assets, the slim pickings for food come in absolute second and the batteries top off the last few inches. 

Everything else he leaves untouched. Miracle vending machines with their endless commodities were never designed for him and so the movies, the magazines, the odds and ends remain to gather dust, unremarkable and unremembered. 

Hitching the pack back upon his shoulder, he turns away from the blaring noise and the sound of screeching machines, as if they're expressing some mechanical empathy in their churning wails. Challenging orders of a robotic voice hit his ear drums and slide away. 

He ignores them and keeps walking.

Will takes one sidelong glance up at the poles that line the street, a haughty, hollow smile caught behind his bandana as he gives the camera a one finger salute. A present for whoever is watching, and he knows _someone_ is. He can feel it like fire ants under his skin. 

He turns and steps off the concrete foundation then, trading rough pavement for dead grass.

The towering forests envelope him easily, standing as plastic tinged monoliths among the remaining woods that still clung to the Chesapeake Bay. Every trunk is dyed violent red, the leaves wilted and littering, they crunch underfoot louder and thicker than gunshots but never did decay. Just one more thing that the world gave up on.

Will moves through the underbrush, dead gnarled twigs of hollow bushes scrape and poke at his clothing. They snap easily, brittle and lacking moisture, a few pruned fruits still cling to the skeletons, stinking sweet and dry, they're a cyanide siren call to the desperate. 

But rock bottom wouldn't find him munching on the tasteless fruit of the dead forest until he choked on spittle and foam, face down in the detris, ass to the air so the world could kiss it for the last goddamn time. 

No, he'd eat a bullet, die slumped over in the moss covered shed by the stream he called home, it's faster, cleaner, more respectful to the dead. His last wishes slid down the chute of a painted mailbox on the corner of the road to never be read. 

The last thing any dead man wants is his cold brain being picked over by harvesters. 

Guns were God's luxury to the suicidally inclined. Scramble it with a bit of metal and you've killed two birds with one stone, _congratulations_.

The thought drives a sigh from him, a rumbling, rough thing that tickles the lower half of his face when the air doesn't escape into the night. 

It's quiet here. The noise from the city is absent. 

He is the only thing that moves through the leaf litter, the animals fled long ago, or perhaps they just died, it's hard to say when the news stories plastered on cracked screens in subterranean tunnels scream they never lived in the first place. Will doesn't know, he stopped keeping track of the last time he saw a bird in the sky a long time ago.

A familiar sound has him looking up, head tilting to catch it properly. 

The clicking whirr is music to his ears. 

He raises his rifle to aim at the sky and peers down the scope. The cross heir is caught in that opening formed by the reaching fingers of the tree tops, scrubbing out the stars like thick smoke, the moonlight turns them into antlers. 

Breathing slow and even, he pulls the bolt back, it clicks in time with his exhale as the droning gets louder. 

A flash of blinking lights cross his vision and he pulls the trigger. 

Lowering the rifle he watches the silhouette of the drone list, all the lights blaring red and orange, smoke obscuring the stars in a hazy blanket. It lingers for a moment, hovering in place and he considers firing another shot but the lights blink once and then nothing. 

Dead, it careens towards the earth.

He watches it go down, tracking the arc of it's limping fall against the night sky. The moment it dips out of sight he's off, racing through the dead woods, rifle clutched in one fist the other hand pulling him along by the red trunks of the trees. His heavy pack slams against his back with each leaping stride but the bruises it will leave are secondary.

The road he exits on is old, dilapidated and crumbling, practically gravel as his heels crunch across it.

A smile graces Will's face and he tugs the bandana down letting his nose and lips hit the open air, his sweat cooling instantly against the quiet whip of warm wind. 

Stalking forward he sets the rifle on the ground, a careless action in most circumstances but desperate hunger claws at the best of his rationality. He'd come here the past four days and the usual drone traffic had been paltry. 

Frankly, he'd started to get it into his head that maybe they finally changed the route considering how much money he costs them. It's why shooting down every package drone was asinine, no he always took the late night ones, they seemed to have the fresh food, the meats and vegetables, and in rare cases even fancy cheeses and wines. 

Those were his favorite. 

He always left a bottle near the mailbox, just in case some sorry, passing soul needed it more than him. 

Crouching he turns the package over, the plastic casing that normally protects it is split wide open and the cardboard is left a bit crumpled in the debris of its own hard plastic shell.

Will studies it, dragging the package towards himself until the label glares up at him. It's impossible to read the words in just the moonlight with the tint of his goggles to boot, but he can make out the address by its familiar shape against the white of the thermal paper. 

It'll be one of the fancier ones tonight, he's sure of it and he's almost giddy at the prospect. It feels like a gift at times, something he's been granted and not forced to rip from the air. 

Adjusting his grip on the corners of the package, he nearly goes through lifting it but there's a hot prickle against the back of his neck that stays his actions. 

Disturbing and rough, someone's watching him. 

Glancing around, he sees only the lines of the forest, the deep darkness that extends past the clearing. The only light is the soft sodium beckon of the city lights peeking through the gaps in the woods. There's no one.

Will's eyes settle on the drone, it remains crippled and lifeless a few yards away, the camera is completely shattered. 

Shaking his head, Will moves to stand again, paranoia wouldn't suit him out here in the open like this. 

"Are you a package rat?" 

Will promptly falls backwards with an undignified yelp, his tailbone slamming into the uneven pavement so hard it rattles up his whole body and shakes his jaw. His rifle is too far away to reach for so as he rolls back to his feet he draws his pistol in the same movement.

Finger tucked against the trigger he nearly pulls it on instinct but the sight of an unarmed man stops him. 

"It's a rather simple question." The man clad ridiculously in a three piece suit stands near the treeline, one hand clasped behind his back as the other sets an old oil lantern on the ground. The soft orange light illuminates the air in tandem with the bright silver of moonlight. 

Will thinks he must have mistaken it for the light pollution from the city, shit. 

"Perhaps there is some confusion," the strange man tilts his head, ever curious as those polished, gleaming shoes trek closer, "I personally find the name to be somewhat lacking, all things considered." 

The man's clothing alone would sell for a pretty penny and Will's fixated on that thought like an with the overzealous moth around a bright flame. However, the threat of something, _someone_ new and strange is real and it drowns out all else. 

"Don't--" Will grinds the words out in a bark, holding the pistol a bit higher, stance hardening, "-- don't come any closer." 

"Apologies." The man raises his hands, and inclines his head, accent curling against the night sky like a one man symphony, "where are my manners." 

Is that a… is he trying to be sarcastic? 

Will's mouth falls open slightly, his brow furrowing to the point that it's causing his goggles to shift on his face. "Who are you?" 

The man gives a micro smile, a literal twitch of his upper lip, but provides nothing further.

"You a factory owner? Some warehouse jockey, maybe?" Will rasps the words out through a throat that forgot about speech above a whisper, it's odd to navigate talking again. Somehow it's not unwelcome despite the fearful pound of his heart racing through his ears.

"No." 

The man steps forward and Will hugs the trigger harder, eyes jumping all over that cookie cutter figure, perfectly coiffed hair and perfect stride, perfect, perfect, _perfect_. He doesn't belong here. 

"You come from Baltimore then?" Will bites out, finding himself edging backwards, giving up ground on his hard earned bounty. 

"Yes." 

Again with the monosyllabic answers. 

"Why're you out here?" 

"To collect on a delayed package." 

Will's lip curls back to frame his canines, he inclines his head in a sharp nod towards the cardboard box at his feet, "you went to a lot of trouble for a lost parcel. They'll just send another." 

The man stares, eyes cast dark in the low lights and it frightens Will with their preternatural quality. 

" _Things_ disappear all the time." Will is the one to step forward now, growl on the tip of his tongue as he takes his aim and levels the barrel with the center of the man's chest. 

"I'm aware." There's a minute narrow that overtakes the man's eyes and those shoulders appear to tense under that expensive fabric skin. 

Will's swallow clicks loudly against the air. 

The man moves forward, measured and eerily quiet, as if he commands the very ground to remain silent despite the shift of chipped rock and pebbles. 

Holding his ground, Will stands with his stomach dropping in an endless loop, fingers trembling and fear scrawls through the raking wind of his feral, primal thoughts to kill this man, _save himself_ , he needs this, _deserves_ it more than him. 

He can't pull the trigger. 

The predator walks right down the barrel and Will watches with blown pupils as the wicked, human clad wolf stops short. Not once does the man look at the pistol, as if it never existed in the first place. 

"May I ask your name?" 

The man carries on like they're patrons in a cafe, not caught in some strange power play that Will brought a gun to and still managed to lose. 

He finds the words slipping from his mouth before he can catch them, "you called me a _package rat_ , let's stick with that." 

"That's reasonable, after all you don't know me nor do you know what I'm capable of." The man nods, appraising Will's paper thin words as if he's some cunning boy at the front of the class. Passing some silent, arbitrary test. 

"I don't."

The man turns sideways, practically spinning until his back is to Will. The gun is less than useless and at this point he reasons that this is either a very elaborate hallucination or this man is actually so detached from reality that danger didn't register in his vocabulary.

"May I ask your name?" Will parrots, stowing the useless pistol. His words are a long shot, everyone these days kept their name tucked on the inside of their hearts, but he does it if only to fidget with that anxious coil in the hollow pit of his chest.

The man looks over his shoulder, those plush lips pursed out in some ambiguous expression, his eyes remain bright, "Not fond of reading the labels, I see."

_Is he… upset?_

Right, Will thinks as he shrugs that can of worms off, flipping to stark annoyance and a guarded sense of disbelief at the whole situation, "Never saw a point."

The man beckons to him and Will looks around as if somehow, somewhere anyone else is seeing this too. After a moment of consideration, Will crouches down on the same level, dirty shoulder brushing that of rich fabric, body heat radiating off the strange man with the allure of a space heater in a cold room. Their combined hunched forms cast a shadow that makes the light almost non-existent. 

The edges of the box at their knees nearly disappears with how little light now filters through the lense of his goggles.

He casts a look over at the man's face, flinching slightly when he catches eyes staring back, dark and glimmering. 

"Remove your goggles." 

It's an order and Will comes to terms with the fact the man beside him is dangerous, but in a reserved and composed way. Almost like a stag, beautiful and reverent but the moment it dips those antlers a threat is uttered with clarity and grace. 

Will reaches up, his fingers numb in their little leather coffins, his breath held as if pushing it on to the world made it real. Gloves slips on the slick plastic of the dust goggles for a few fumbling seconds, and he considers refusing but there's something hypnotically curious that blasts through the sacrilegious; one of the few things people like him ate a bullet for. 

_Die with your mask on if you've got to._

In the span of a few heartbeats, he breaks it. He lifts his salvation off his nose and drags it down his face, scraping off a layer of dirt, grime and sweat with it.

Leaving them hung low around his neck, bunched up in that sweat damp bandana, it feels _good_ , righteous even, as if the justice in it is lost in the moment and covering his eyes was only ever an aesthetic that could always be discarded. As if in this moment, he couldn't be killed for this. 

As if he _wouldn't_ be killed for this.

A metaphorical timer begins it's winding descent the moment his eyes meet the man's and the world appears so much brighter, brimming with color. 

His eyes… they're almost red. 

Will blinks and forces his gaze down, scrubbing the back of a wrist across his forehead, he massages the harsh lines that accent the bones of his cheeks and his brow. Hugging them tight in a way he can't see but must look something garrish. 

Embarrassment heats his ears with an intense shame. His heart is going through the ringer, twisting and leaping as he realizes just how _clean_ the strange man is, somehow in the full light of the moon he's nigh perfect, beautiful like the ancient paintings of angels he vaguely remembers in the pages of half burnt textbooks.

Will ducks his chin and wonders. He wonders who he is if not some scraggly dog, some _rat_ to the polished shoes of a duke, some amusing little stray to the rich kid on the block. He stays head bowed and back bent, held fast with the thought, his fingers form hooks in the meat of his thighs. 

Left with nothing but the silent order to observe the world, he reads the label, able to make it out easily now where the world holds more contrast yet feels more naked.

Speaking aloud without really recognizing it, Will puts a name to the stranger's face, "Dr. Hannibal Lecter." 

Will ponders the title, angling his chin until his eyes can slant across the sharp cheekbones of the face beside him, "So you're a medic." 

"A psychiatrist actually." Hannibal stands, offering a helping hand of all things, "I'm intrigued by your use of the term, I've found it's usually reserved for military personnel." 

Will scoffs, shaking his head with closed eyes. He opens them to the sight of a proffered hand in front of his nose. Slightly cross eyed, he stares for a long moment uncomprehending of the clean, manicured fingers that reach for his own dirty and scarred ones. Slack features pollute Will's face until he resembles a confused puppy and he arches a brow up at Hannibal's face, obscured by the distance but back lit by the hanging moon. 

Hesitantly, he accepts the offer, expecting his hand to pass straight through the palm because it has to be pretend. 

He hates that it isn't, and he hates how it sets the lining of his stomach a flutter. A thousand little bees pittering and pattering around his organs with no regard to the person who has to live with all of them. It tickles in a way that hurts, feeling almost like the pangs of hunger but distinctly different. 

Limp, his hand is that of doubt laid in the trust of another. Firm, Hannibal's fingers wrap around his own and pull him up. A tentative trust is strengthened, soldered into the way their palms meld with each other for the briefest moment. Betrayal looks firmly the other way. 

A softness caresses Will's smile, peeking through the hard, weathered edges, "our doctors are broadcasters." 

He explains it, short and abhorrently sweet, keeping it as simple as he can to someone like Hannibal. After all, despite this friendly truce of sorts, they'll always be different; worlds apart and identically opposite.

"I see." Hannibal doesn't elaborate, instead he places one hand in the pocket of his trousers. 

Will only now realizes the psychiatrist is dressed in three different patterns, yet by some miracle of divine grace, it isn't an eye sore. 

In that lingering, stretching silence Will remembers his radio at home, the morning broadcast on the airwaves, a reason to keep living found in the comfort of another voice on the other side. Someone surviving just like him.

His eyes linger on Hannibal's face, taking in the quiet purse of his lips, he searches for something in the imperceivable static of the psychiatrist. Disappointed, he finds nothing. 

This man had never been reduced to scraping the bottom of the same can for the second day in a row, clinging to the words of someone miles away that he'd never met. Always one bad day away from ghosting himself before he ended up without a will or wish in the world.

He wonders how this man could be one of _them_ when he's so damn pleasant.

"Would you like to know what's inside?" Hannibal asks, the match to the curious kerosene, "it would be a fair and proper exchange for such excellent marksmanship." 

Will eyes the box, one hand absentmindedly creeps up to tug at the goggles resting above his sternum, "not particularly. If you're gonna take it, just go." 

_It'll certainly sting less._ He doesn't add but the unspoken lingers in the air like a flashing, neon sign. 

Hannibal arches a non-existent brow, "you wouldn't stop me?" 

Will grinds his molars, he hates the way the question drips of some haughty accusation, something always said in not so many words. How pretentious, Will's venmous thought reflects in every syllable he spits, "I'm not a fucking killer."

Hannibal blinks, clearly not prepared for the sheer crudeness, the vitriol that should've been expected from the moment they crossed paths finally hits the air. 

The psychiatrist remains almost unphased, speaking with a measured tone like ice waiting to melt in the kitchen sink, "no, you're not." 

Will scrunches his brow, a grimace like the crumple of a house of cards folds his lips and words don't find him before the psychiatrist speaks again. 

"However, your curiosity is quite palpable." 

"It's… I'm-" Will cuts himself off with a dry laugh, swiping a hand across his nose with a sniff, "-I'm really not curious." 

Hannibal steps back, one hand clasped behind his back as the other sweeps forward and gestures to the box of contention, "Open it and half of the contents remain yours. _Fair and square_ , as they say." 

"Haha." Will lets the sarcastic laugh bounce against the dead trees, expecting the punchline for the tasteless joke to drop any second. 

It doesn't. 

Those red eyes pin him down under their quiet power, and Will's fingers twitch along the holster of his gun. Something isn't right.

He stoops once more, this time cautious glances thrown up at the silhouette, wary eyes and warier hands as he fishes for his pocket knife a moment and flips it open with a soft _click_. 

The blade glints like a caution sign, all silvers and warnings, he cuts through the tape anyways. 

Wrenching the flaps aside, he casts the paper order forms aside and squints at the contents. They look almost black in the moonlight alone but suddenly they spiral into vibrant color. 

Throwing an arm up to shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of light, he watches Hannibal approach, lantern once more in hand. Whatever it is, the psychiatrist wants him to see with utter clarity, no room for a single misunderstanding.

Will turns back to the box, pushing the contents around with a delicate air, half expecting the man to plant a shoe in his side and kick him to the broken pavement. The punishment never comes. Hannibal says nothing, he only watches.

Somehow this silent judgement is worse. 

There's a lot of dry ice, vacuum sealed packets of red and pink and fatty yellow ensconced between it. **Meat.**

His stomach rumbles loudly at the mere thought of fresh food, but something catches his eye. 

Digging deeper, he pulls it up from the depth of the box, and then promptly drops it like it bit him. His bruised tailbone smacks the ground a millisecond later as he flails and scrambles backwards against the rattling pain, proverbial raccoon caught in the garbage can. 

He kicks the offending object away for good measure, gloved palms ground into the pavement as he lays sprawled out on his ass, "Fuck that's a--" 

"A human foot, yes." Hannibal picks it up off the cracked ground, dusting off the flecks of dirt from the plastic before placing it safely back in the box. He nestles and tucks it there as if it's the finest porcelain not something outrageously disturbing.

Will's eyes only ever remain wide as he claws his way to his feet. His pupils feel as if they're practically shaking in their sockets, one hand fists hard in his hair while involuntary moisture gathers hot at the corners of his vision. It's such a disturbing sight. It's wrong. God, it's worse than anything.

He keeps running one hand down the length of his jacket, scraping the glove's tainted surface with each pass, he wants to rip the whole thing off with his teeth and throw it far, far away. 

"Why the--" he's breathless, desperately trying to catch his breath on panicked pants, "Why the fuck is Amazon delivering human meat?" 

"Just one perk of a prime membership." 

Will blinks hard, casting a glance at the self proclaimed psychiatrist, the fucking clandestine _cannibal_ and his stupid three piece suit in three different forms of plaid. 

Hannibal nods, appraising Will's panic with a tiny frown, "admittedly the extremities lack flavor and they're difficult to tenderize, but as a cook I am open to experimentation." 

"No." Will cuts a palm through the air, backing away he stoops to grab his rifle and immediately draws back the bolt, finding comfort in the sound, "no, no, **no**. This is--" 

Hannibal only ever continues to rearrange the contents of the box, back to him as Will raises the rifle and aims for the back of his perfect fucking skull. 

"God this is so fucking wrong." On the last word his voice dips and breaks, his finger leaps off the trigger and his whole frame sags, "I'm--" he laughs wet and full, the barrel of the rifle scrapes the pavement like nails on a chalkboard. 

Hannibal the Cannibal; really? How unoriginal, it had to be a fucking fever dream.

Hannibal stands, that _box_ gathered in strong arms, effortless and neat, the lantern balanced on top. There's almost a twinkle in his eyes.

"To the untrained eye a pig's heart could be mistaken for a human's. The same could be said of any organ, if that individual lacked the medical knowledge and further still if he suspended his lingering suspicions." Hannibal's words ring muffled and dull, as if they're spoken to a body floating face down, "even the taste can be described as similar."

"Thank you for the insight, _Dr. Lecter._ " Will bares his teeth, spreading the mocking tone so thick until his words clot the air in his lungs and leave him breathless. Clutching the length of the rifle ever harder, Will keeps the barrel down, but he'd be damned if he didn't imagine killing the psychiatrist then and there. It'd be righteous. 

And he's trying so hard not to lose it. He's not only lost the promise of a nutritious meal but now he's coping with the reality that the rich consumed the sad and the lowly in every sense of the word.

The psychiatrist retreats for the woods, halting just shy of the road's edge he turns around, "I thought you should know--" 

Will looks towards him, blue caught in spiced merlot. 

"This isn't the first package I've lost here." 

It feels like he's been dunked head first in an ice bath, no warning, no regard for the screams punched from his chest, lungs frozen by the liquid invasion. Will's vision dips and wavers behind the kaleidoscope of dim light through thickening tears. 

"Goodnight, Will." 

The lantern light is long gone and the moon has fallen behind the trees when Will finally moves. 

Like a statue coming to life, his stiff limbs creak and ache, once stolen in the stone grip of panic, he moves as if he doesn't own them anymore. Tucking his rifle in the crook of his elbow, Will sets his goggles firmly back on his face and tugs the bandana up to the bridge of his nose. 

Breathing in the stale air, it's as if he never took them off. 

When he takes the first step, the crunch under his heel is deafening. The second step is quieter, the third he doesn't hear at all, the fourth never happens.

He hears his name on the thick tongue of an accent, distant and firm, a promise strung between the good-byes. He knows the hungry eyes that linger on the other side of the camera.

Will stops. 

There, in the middle of the quiet, rotting road is a single vacuum sealed heart, a pancreas beside it; sentimental and sweet.

By the time the sun crests the horizon, he sleeps like the dead, his stomach full as he dreams among the soft crackle of a low fire and the gurgle of a quiet stream.

**Author's Note:**

> And here lies my 5k word set up for a single shitty joke 
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥️👁️


End file.
